Burgundy & Black
by raehex
Summary: While catching up over drinks, William Regal notices Dean Ambrose is out of sorts with himself. He offers to help, in his own way. [Dean Ambrose/William Regal. Cowritten with SpaMightWrite from AO3. Rated M for smut, BDSM (specifically spanking & flogging). You've been warned.]


**A/N: **By god, it finally happened. It was really a matter of time, to be honest. Cowritten with the lovely SpaMightWrite from AO3. We both like each other's work, we've both written gifts for the other, so we figured, why not write a fic together. It's both our first times writing Ambregal in a smutty context, so, please keep that in mind. Read, review, recommend if you wish!

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><p>Two things were at the focus of William Regal's attention: his laptop, which murmured non-stop with a streaming video, and the short text message displayed on his phone. He sat in his small office, the last vestige of quiet among the raucous crowd and the rowdy talent he reigned in on a weekly basis, and allowed the interview to run on without paying it much mind.<p>

It had been in his intention to study the video closely, to take notes on Mr. Austin's critiques of their business and Mr. McMahon's responses. But the open page of his wine-red moleskine booklet remained blank, but for a single sentence, black ink stark against white paper.

"He's taken special notice of him."

After hearing the principal owner, the show-runner, the end-all and be-all of arbitration of the WWE, lay praise upon a certain someone's work, Sir William Regal's mind was hopelessly chained to just one man. The man who had dropped him a line just hours before, the man he was neglecting of his attention for the time being.

The conversation between the men in the video had blurred to gibberish as that man's face flashed across his memory with a pair of sleepy, ice-blue eyes and an ever-so-slightly crooked smirk.

His hands fumbled up towards his neck to loosen his fine silk tie. He cleared his throat, even though there was no one in the room with which he would need to speak clearly. It had been quite a while since they had seen each other in person, perhaps months, due to their similarly busy schedules and the resulting distance.

But he saw him every week, gracing his television screen with wild abandon and more passion for this business than anyone in his generation.

Perhaps, not just passion... He would go as far as to describe it as "embodiment".

And now, he wasn't the only one who had taken notice.

His laptop shut with a click.

His gaze returned to his phone, which informed him, "ill b in town 2nite. drink? :)"

William shook his head and rubbed one of his temples with a slow stroke. They knew each other well enough for such casual contact, he accepted that. And there would be no changing of that odd little habit he'd gained from years on a flip phone. They had many things in common, but formality certainly wasn't one of them.

In spite of all of it, he couldn't deny the jump in his chest when he received the message.

Well. No helping it, then.

He would see him.

Having received such vague instructions, William took the initiative and decided where they would meet. One place came to mind - a somewhat upscale bar attached to a hotel, which overlooked the beach. The crowd mainly consisted of businessmen and women looking to network and blow off very small amounts of steam, as well as visiting celebrities and athletes.

He'd met that man there before, actually. Years ago.

William remembered walking in to spot him sitting in a corner booth, as if to hide from the rest of the patrons. Dressed in a beaten leather jacket, white t-shirt and ripped jeans, he seemed quite lost among the suits and cocktail dresses and polished mahogany. He was staring at the table, then at his fingernails, his gaze meandering coincidentally to meet Regal's. Under the low, golden light, his untamed blond hair and matching scruff on his cheeks seemed almost to glow.

There was quite a discussion to be had.

But in the present, there wasn't anything _planned_, per se. There would be a chat about whatever the other was doing at the moment, congratulations on both ends for respective accomplishments.

Yet there was an intangible taste at the back of William's palate, of something unsaid but shared between them. On the one hand, he would usually become frustrated with anything he struggled to describe. He much preferred to put words to anything and everything. But on the other, he relished the indescribable, the sublime. It was a lovely change of pace, sometimes, to be able to feel rather than speak. To let such things swirl about his brain like a fine cognac in a polished glass.

Dean Ambrose.

He was good for that. Defying comparison, description. And most interestingly, often unable - or maybe refusing - to self-identify.

His actions would speak for him, usually.

As William tapped out his response to Dean, he wondered if he would have to respond in action that night, as well.

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><p>The parking lot was sort of silent, at least for <em>this<em> establishment, or maybe it had just been a very long time since he had been here. Dean had been sitting in the car for a few moments, drumming his fingers absently against the steering wheel. He wasn't quite sure why he was feeling anxious, it's not like he was meeting someone new. His body did weird things sometimes; he just tended to brush it off as something else to blame on the copious amounts of drugs he did years ago.

Finally, after a few minutes of controlling his breathing, and making sure for the fiftieth time in the mirror that his hair looked as tame as it could be, he got out, locking the door behind him, as he strolled in to the bar, thankful for the lack of swarming fans or cameras. Not that he didn't enjoy posing with fans for a picture, or signing an autograph here or there; he remembered when he was younger and wanted to meet the people he now considered friends in the locker room, so he wasn't going to snap at them, but it was really nice to have some peace and quiet for a change.

Once more, being back in this bar, he found himself overwhelmingly underdressed. He looked down at his jeans, and while they were nicer (namely, not ripped), they were still jeans, as opposed to the khakis-at-a-minimum that seemed to be the uniform for the rest of the crowd here. He did, however, have nice boots on, and instead of just a plain white t-shirt and a leather jacket, he had a nice long sleeved shirt, some muted burgundy color, and ok, he still had the leather jacket. His old habits die hard, what could he say.

He had asked the bartender, who was a lovely brunette with deep blue eyes, for a glass of whiskey, giving the ol' razzle dazzle combination of the dimples and lowering his voice just a bit. As he stood waiting for his drink, he couldn't help but think about where he was only, god, three years ago.

He was just some rough and tumble kid from Ohio with less of a chip and more of a fucking boulder on his shoulder, trying desperately to prove himself, and out of all the people in the world to take him under their wing and, for lack of a better word, groom him for the WWE, it would be Sir William Regal. And yet this was the man who named him, who named his finisher, and who, apparently, cannot shut up about him to this day.

His heart and stomach did a strange sort of coordinated twist at that.

When he heard the drink slide over towards him on the bar, it brought him back to the present day, and he handed the woman more than what was necessary for the drink, insisting she keep the rest as a tip. _3...2...1…_ ah yes, a nice faint blush rose on her cheeks. His mission was completed; Dean had a sort of thing about making women around him blush. It wasn't even anything lascivious about it, he just found how people reacted to him to be amusing, because he was nothing to write home about, at least if you asked him. He did use it to his advantage though, when the setting was appropriate. If he wasn't meeting Regal here, this very setting would have been absolutely appropriate. Pity.

He made his way down towards the corner of the bar, and while one hand raised the glass to his mouth, letting the chilled whiskey just sit, briefly, in his mouth before swallowing it, savoring the taste, his other fiddled around with his phone. Sure, he pretended to be technologically illiterate, for his own sake and, in some part, for the sake of his fans (he'd seen first hand how Seth's fans reacted when they found out he was on Tumblr, and Dean felt it was probably best for his mental health if he never searched his tag, even if his curiosity did eat at him about it), but as he checked his emails, he couldn't hear the footfalls against the hardwood floor, until he heard a clearing of someone's throat.

He looked up, placing both the phone and glass down, taking the napkin to wipe at his mouth briefly, before standing up, a smile breaking across his face.

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><p>"Ah, well done." The first thought in William's head as he took the whole of Dean Ambrose into his eyes. This younger man, though still scruffy as the day was long in beard and hair, was dressed far more appropriately for the occasion than he was during their first meeting there. Nothing on him was torn, he looked as if he'd bothered to shower, and even his boots seemed like they'd been purchased sometime in the last year or so.<p>

A faint little sadness crept into his heart at that moment. Clearly Dean was the person he was all those years ago, his essence was still all grit, piss, and vinegar. He could tell just from the look in his sad blue eyes.

Yet he was changed. By years, experience, perhaps. But he seemed actually to care a little bit about how he might fit in this establishment.

And for a moment, William missed the part of him that didn't.

But Dean opened his mouth, and all became right again. "If it ain't my favorite dinosaur!" He pulled Regal into a brief ghost of a hug and gestured for him to sit down at the barstool next to him.

He accepted the invitation, finding the bartender approaching as if on cue. She was quite stunning, if he had to be honest, with a friendly and genuine smile. He would have to make sure his accent was obvious.

"Ah, whiskey," he said, loudly and clearly. "Straight, if you please." He put on the warm, pleasant grin, the one he reserved just for strangers he thought could use a pick-me-up for whatever reason.

She bit her bottom lip, uncontrollably, as she nodded and went to fetch his drink. The woman was _melting. _He could easily speculate that his companion had worked his own charms on her just minutes before he arrived.

When the bartender returned with glass in hand, she lay it gently into William's hands, allowing her fingers to brush against his. "Let me know if you boys need anything else, all right?" She winked and scurried away.

The two men shot knowing glances at each other, Dean giggling madly in the way that he did.

Dean breathed out the last chuckle and lightly slapped the bar with one hand. "So! How's it going down here with the new meat? Nice to be runnin' things again?"

"Ah, yes," he exhaled, voice returning to its normal soft tones as he swallowed the faintest sip of his whiskey. "It has been a little while since I've been at the head of things. Nice to be managing, again… generally."

William stared wistfully into the middle distance and waited. It took him a moment, but Dean eventually laughed. Not that he regarded this man as being slow, but he doubted anyone could ever get fully used to his sense of humor.

"And how are things for you, then?" he went on, swirling the liquid in his glass. "Obviously I follow the product very closely, and I can see where you are. But I want to hear it from the man himself. You've gained quite the following."

Dean's expression flipped entirely. His eyes grew softer, his mouth twitched from a smile into a thin neutral line. The dimples in his cheek disappeared. And again William mourned for the loss of Dean's… Dean-ness.

"Something wrong?"

"Nah, nah, don't worry," he shook his head, strawberry blond curls bouncing a bit. "I'm just… it's totally surreal nowadays. Like… I don't know man, I feel like there's all this responsibility, and you know me, I'm not the most _responsible_ of people. And like, I… signed into this company thinkin' nobody gave a shit about me, who the fuck would want me in the big leagues, right? You and I did our thing and I thought it was fucking brilliant, but then they closed down that crappy little warehouse and I just kinda sat there."

No one else remembered that time more clearly than William did. Dean Ambrose had been more capable, more ready than anyone else on the FCW roster to be bumped into the big picture. And while his future opponents and teammates tested their worth on television every week, Dean languished in the dark. It affected him, to the point where William feared for his future possibly even more than Dean.

But things got better. Were better.

"And now it's just fuckin'... weird." Dean sat on that last word for a few moments, taking a large swig of his drink. "I've got all this merch on the internet, I'm in a goddamn movie… Do you know that I've actually met fans that have Dean Ambrose tattoos? Tattoos. For me. Of my initials, logo, whatever. Like… _what?!_ People coming up to me and telling me that I _inspire_ them, that they watched my matches when they're recovering from being sick, I've got little kids who are dying of fucking cancer or whatever wanting to meet me, and just..." He let out a mirthless snicker. "Everything's gotten so much bigger, so crazy huge, and here I am, still just… scumbag Dean Ambrose." He took another sip of his drink, staring blankly at the bottom of the glass.

"It just feels like too much, sometimes. Like, why me?"

It pained him, literally made his heart ache a bit, to hear him say that. William laid a hand on Dean's leather-clad shoulder, squeezing gently.

"You're the second highest seller on the Shop, you know. The only person ahead of you is one… John Cena. If you've heard of him." He tried his best to smile, hoping Dean might follow.

"You're not exactly _helping_ right now, but, yeah… yeah I heard that. Heard I had more fuckin' merch than Seth, and _he's_ the one that's being marketed as 'The Future of the Company,' which, hey man, good for him, but just… why _me_. Why am _I_ the one that's getting the movie, why am _I_ the one with the screaming hordes of fangirls, like, god, how do I even still have eardrums after some of these meet and greets. I mean… _I'm doing meet and greets_. The idiot ass that did fucking deathmatches… getting movie deals and jerseys made for him by NFL teams and I-"

His mouth snapped shut, his brows furrowing together. He hummed to himself, tapping the glass against the bar, almost rhythmically. He looked over quickly at William, who seemed to be looking at him with pity and concern and oh _hell_ no that would not do at all.

He quickly flagged down the bartender, motioning for another drink.

When the drink was slid back over, he smiled weakly, tracing a finger along the rim of the glass. His brain was starting to feel like static, he was getting overwhelmed in his thoughts, and this was not a good place to do this. Not that _anywhere_ was a good place to do so, but definitely not in a bar, in a higher-scale bar than what he usually frequented, and definitely not in front of William Regal.

_Sir_ William Regal.

"Did it ever bother you? Like… did the fame," he almost gags on the word, "did it ever get to you? Did you ever feel like you lost who you were as a person, and that the expectations just… man, I'm so afraid of fucking this up. I don't have anything else after this. You remember. This is all I've got left."

"Dean, please listen to me." William set down his own glass and laced his fingers together on the bar counter. "I can assure you that everyone who has been in your position has had the very same experience. You worry that you've become someone else, and… in turn, you worry that the person you thought you were never existed. So, yes, I have felt that."

Dean fidgeted in his seat as he worked on his second drink, not avoiding eye contact, but not seeking it out, either.

"But… I never want you to think that there's any possible way you can… fuck this up, if you'll pardon my French."

His eyes widened, for once not looking so sleepy. It certainly wasn't the time to laugh at him, but it did amuse William that he was so shocked with his language.

"I mean, barring anything drastic, such as an Act of God sort of thing, I can safely say that your place in this company is quite safe. It's for the very reasons you've listed before. You have that intangible, that… how did he put it. The 'it' factor that we look for in all of our top superstars. Your charisma, it has you firmly stamped into the hearts and brains of everyone here."

Dean shook his head. Not quite disbelieving him, no, but the significance of that message was lost on him.

William lifted one hand and gently placed a finger on Dean's chin, turning it so their eyes could meet.

"Did… did you hear Steve Austin's podcast? The one with Vince on it, the most recent one?"

"Nah, didn't really get a chance to. You know… big time superstar and all…" His sarcasm was back slightly, which seemed to be a bit of an improvement, in William's eyes.

He was afraid, however, of how quickly that would crumble once he continued his statement.

"Well… Steve decided to ask Vince what he thought of Raw, most recently. And he mentioned that, generally speaking, they both feel that the locker room isn't quite at the caliber it used to be, in regards to risk taking and wanting to make that extra effort to get over, to connect with the fanbase, to improve the product and, with it, themselves.

"Except for four specific people."

Dean's eyes were appearing to glaze over slightly, which William knew was a very bad sign, but he had to make sure that Dean _knew_ how important he is.

"You were mentioned, specifically, by name, _twice_ within the course of, oh, five minutes, by Vince McMahon. He is _very_ impressed with you. He thinks you're one of the few superstars in that locker room right now that wants to make that effort for the metaphorical brass ring. I don't think in the slightest that you're at any risk job wise, unless, as you've so eloquently put it, you fuck this up, and even then, you'd have to do royally, I imagine."

William watched, sadly, as the man in front of him became disconnected. Regal had seen this happen to him maybe once or twice, when the pressure became too much, when his anxieties and fears, the ones that he pushed to the very bottom of his being, would climb their way forth. Trying to muffle demons with drugs and alcohol had only made them rabid, and they'd taken a liking to eating at Dean's psyche. He wasn't insane by any means, and it was rather offensive, at least to William, to insinuate anything of the sort in regards to Dean, even if it was just for marketing.

But, he couldn't help but acknowledge that something in Dean was wired very loosely, and every now and then it would slip, and there were few things that could stabilize him, ground him, place him firmly back in his brain and his bones.

Once, it was the drugs. At another point, it was the deathmatches.

And, it appeared, William would have to call upon the third.

And he would have to do it before Dean shattered the glass in his hand by squeezing it. His knuckles were already white and shaking.

"Dean," he spoke firmly and suddenly. He'd grabbed Dean's attention, but there was still too much bramble behind his eyes to penetrate. His pupils were twitching, orbs stuttering in their sockets.

William nodded at him, his expression as soft as he could possibly muster. "Let's get out of here."

He didn't have to say it twice. Dean nodded in agreement, absently leaving a $20 bill on the bar counter and striding towards the door. William followed suit. Just because they didn't finish their whiskey didn't mean they couldn't make the bartender's day.

Dean was long gone by the time Regal reached the doors, but he soon found him out in the dark air of the parking lot, pacing, bouncing on the balls of his feet, clenching and releasing both fists out of time with each other. He only happened to stop when he caught William staring back at him in between paces.

William approached, slowly, steadily, his hands in the pockets of his suit. "My place, or your hotel?"

"Fuck," Dean snarled, tapping a fingernail against the phone in his pocket. "Agh, I just…"

"You're obliged to do absolutely nothing, you know that, don't you?"

"Yeah, I got that," he shouted through his teeth. "I just didn't want to have to do this again, it's not… I just wanna think I can take care of myself, like I always have."

"I know that, Dean," William finally reached him, and he cautiously took one of his hands in both of his. "But you don't have to. Not anymore. Or, at least, not right now."

Dean snatched his hands away, before rubbing at his face, needing some sort of friction against his skin to think, as odd as that sounded.

"Yeah. Yeah, fuck it. Just… fuck it. Your place. Needs to be your place." His thoughts were racing, but his brain felt like it was missing something, he felt like his body wasn't keeping him in, and yet he felt like he was being smothered. And through all of it was this low fucking irritating static in his ears. He felt like he was overheating.

He pulled out his keys, fiddling with them in his hand, running the pad of his thumb over the edges of each key. Scratching, so much scratching.

"You're not driving, not in this state. Leave your car here, we'll come back for it later." Dean nodded absently, still scraping his thumb against the ridges of the key.

William noted this with keen eyes. Noted the way he chewed on his fingernails as they made their way to his car. Noted the diligent silence as he drove to his residence, save for the sound of Dean nervously scraping his palm against the top of his thigh.

The bar was actually quite close to where he was living, a single-floor beach house that he could liken to a cottage. Dean had flung himself out of William's car before he even had the chance to turn it off. In stark contrast to Dean's furious stomp to the front door, the older man strode briskly yet calmly with his house key in hand. The lock clicked open, and Dean pushed past him inside.

The door had barely shut behind them before Dean pounced. His arms clamped around Regal's waist as he crushed their lips together, panting as if he'd just run ten miles. The two of them relished the friction of Dean's stubble against William's clean-shaven lip and chin, the older man basking in Dean's uncontrollable desire.

And it was so nice to kiss him. To feel his mouth at work rather than just hearing it.

Yet…

"You know this isn't how it has to work, Dean." Regal gently pushed him off and straightened his suit jacket, watching placidly as his companion lurched forward again.

"Come on, old man," Dean grumbled, collapsing to his knees. "Just give it to me already, fuck it, I don't fucking care anymore." His hands groped at Regal's perfectly ironed pants, his palm brushing against his prize.

William took Dean's wrists in his hands and dropped them away. "You're not the one in charge tonight. You know this."

"Come _on_," he growled ravenously. He made a final attempt towards the zipper of his pants.

With a resounding crack, Sir William Regal landed a hard slap to Dean's face. The younger man froze in place, his hand holding the offended cheek, his eyes seeming to be unscrambling some puzzle behind them.

Regal shook his hand lightly, giving the burning sting on his fingers little more than a passing note.

"Dean," he whispered, as if there was anyone there to hear them. "You're going to follow my every direction. You remember our discussion from so long ago, don't you?"

Dean nodded, his eyes fogged over and staring into the floor.

"Is there anything that has changed, anything I need to know about?"

He shook his head, panting a bit.

"So we're working with what we've already established."

Nod.

"I see." Regal loosened the cufflinks on his suit sleeves. "Now. Strip."

Dean was shaking, no, thrumming? He had no idea, he was doing some sort of twitching, his muscles felt tense and his skin felt hot and he felt like his fingers were useless but he made a valiant effort in removing his clothes, and removing them promptly.

Once the jacket was gone and the shirt was over his head, Regal had to take in yet another change to the man in front of him. When he and Dean first started playing this game, sure, Dean was in shape, but it wasn't anything remarkable.

He was remarkable now.

He couldn't help but continue watching in amazement, as every time another article of clothing was removed, it was like he was rediscovering who Dean was, because clearly this was not the same man he met years ago, headstrong and full of rage. No, he had matured and mellowed out, slightly, but he had wondered if he could draw out whatever inkling of discomfort, whatever shadow that slithered around his insides, and make Dean feel right again.

Once he was stripped naked, it was interesting to note how it was almost like muscle memory: Dean's head was down, his arms in front of him, hands clasped together. He had figured the years apart would have wiped that away, but that was silly, if he thought realistically about it. Dean is a creature of habit, for good or for evil, and habits die hard.

William spent a moment or two just taking in all that stood before him. This strong young man in his prime, in the peak of condition, who made a profession of overpowering men even larger than himself, kneeling before him entirely naked and ready to cater to his every word.

If Sir William Regal embodied anything in his own existence, it was control.

Yet he allowed himself the short and blissful vice of palming himself through his suit pants, breathing through the stiffening and the head rush that followed.

"That's a boy, Dean," he praised him in a gentle groan. "Off to a good start, aren't we?"

He received no reply. Maybe it had been too long? Maybe all he needed was a small reminder.

William reached forward and took the back of Dean's head into one hand. He tilted it back, their eyes meeting in the middle, Dean's like the mist over a trembling ocean. His mouth hung just slightly open, almost as if he were partially asleep.

Well, he had to be awake for this to work.

His hand clenched without warning, tugging the ginger curls back, causing Dean to grimace with pain. The sudden change in expression, the hitch in his breathing, the hiss between his clenched teeth.

Wonderful.

"Dean, I asked you a question, didn't I?"

"Yes… you did…"

William raised an eyebrow, the look in his eyes asserting to Dean that he would not hesitate to slap him again.

"...Sir."

"I knew you wouldn't forget, it doesn't take much to get back there, does it? I could tell from the moment you started to fog over in front of me what you needed, and this was it, yes? You need to be put back on track, feel back in your body. You've always needed guidance, always craved it, haven't you?"

Dean wanted to nod, but William's hand was clenched tightly in his hair, and short of allowing any more strands to be ripped from his scalp, he murmured out, "yes Sir."

"Then tell me."

"I…" Christ, why was his throat closing up at this? He hated admitting when he was weak, he hated admitting that he needed help, but he knew this would only end worse for him if he didn't speak up.

"I do, Sir. I need your help."

"And I am happy to provide it."

Dean's hair was released. He fell forward onto his hands, his head lowered, heaving out a few breaths. William crouched down to his level and grasped Dean's chin between his thumb and forefinger, lifting it slowly to lock his attention.

In the face of Dean's crumbling pride, Sir William Regal smiled. "Now, pray tell. _How _can I help you tonight? And I would like you to be very specific."

He could feel the younger man tensing in his grip, struggling to get the words out of his dilapidated thoughts and the years of conditioning that held them inside. His jaw was outright refusing to move. William understood; the boy wasn't just being stubborn. He would need a taste of it in order to ask properly.

"Like this?"

His free hand reached behind Dean, underneath his arm, and settled up at the base of his neck. Seconds passed wherein William delighted in the wild heartbeat next to his, the pounding pulse against his being. Their breathing synchronized for a moment as he stroked Dean, gingerly running his fingers along his spine. Then, he settled his fingernails into his shoulder blade and raked downward, slowly, deliberately, flesh yielding under his claw.

Dean let out a pained grunt, followed by an angry breath into William's ear. "Aah, god…"

"What was that?" His nails were poised to strike again, this time on the other side of his back. "You will have to speak up, my hearing isn't what it used to be, my dear."

"Sir," he choked out, his back stinging and tingling where he'd been scratched, aching and twitching where he hadn't. "I… I need you to… punish me. Please, Sir."

Another four red lines appeared on Dean's back, burning happily on his skin, before he moved away from Dean's body, choosing now just to be crouched in front of him, keeping close watch.

"I understand, Dean." William stood, placing a sympathetic hand on the top of his head, stroking his delicate hair. "Do know, however, I won't be punishing _you_. You have done nothing to deserve it. What I'm going to punish is those overactive nerves, the anxieties, the fears you do not need. Perhaps when I'm finished, they will know that they work for you, and not the other way around."

He observed Dean shudder and pant beneath him. Was that what he needed to hear? That it wasn't _him_, necessarily?

"Dean, to the bedroom, if you please."

Dean nodded, his forearms still braced against the floor, elbows locked, shaking from the tension. He slowly moved as if he were going to crawl, which William had not asked him to do. He went to speak up, to tell him that it was unnecessary, that he could walk, but he then realized that if Dean had done this of his own accord, it was something that he needed. He'd be remiss to take that from him.

He looked over at the pile of clothing Dean had left, at least having had the clarity of mind to keep them all in the same general vicinity of each other, rather than strewn about as he had been apt to do in the past. He made quick work of getting the clothes together, taking a moment to steel himself, before heading into the bedroom.

Dean was sitting on the edge of the bed, head down, hands folded in his lap. William was relieved to see that he at least wasn't waiting on the floor, kneeling. He had hoped that it had taken hold in Dean's mind that _he_ wasn't being punished, but some part of him still felt that Dean held some personal burden, and that he wouldn't realize that these were separate creatures to be tamed.

He placed the clothes gently on his dresser, taking the time to fold them, letting the silence between he and Dean grow. He wanted to make sure that Dean's thoughts were clear before they moved forward with this. If they were still muddled when this started, he'd have to treat him more roughly to clear his mind, and because Dean was on regular live television, he was trying to do his best to not leave visible markings.

Once the last article of clothing had been folded, a tidy pile waiting for its owner once this was completed, William turned back around. Dean's eyes were closed, his breathing deep and steady and even. Good, that was _very_ good. "Are you ready, Dean?"

Dean nodded, clearing his throat. "Yes Sir."

"What's the safety?"

Dean's right foot started tapping against his left as he thought. Eyes now open, head still down. "Tag."

William could always trust in Dean to choose the most random words for safeties, but that was exactly what was necessary, in order to make sure that it was abundantly clear when enough was enough. He finally removed his suit jacket, the neck of his shirt loosened already by a button or two, and placed the jacket delicately on the dresser. He approached the bed, each motion of his hand rolling up the sleeves of his shirt articulated, watching with amusement as Dean brought his head up slowly, staring at Regal's movements.

Finally, he sat down on the bed, trying to ignore the aching hardness that pressed against the fabric of his pants. He soon pointed to his lap.

"Over my knee."

The hesitation was there. The reason for it was anyone's guess - nerves, pride, fear of this intimate contact after so long. It was there. But it faded.

Dean gave a sudden nod and lifted his hands from his lap to clamber from his position. William wasn't shocked to find Dean already rock hard, but was pleasantly surprised with his restraint. Dean was hunched over, focused on his last command, making his way over to him, rather than attempting to relieve the tension in his groin.

Finally, the younger man lay his chest over William's knees, his weight pressing down the bed with the tired squeak of the mattress springs. His strong arms lay limp in front of him, his knees resting against the bed. And his backside, presented just slightly upward.

While clothed, his bottom would often disappear into the looseness of his jeans, making it seem he had nothing to speak of back there.

Not so here.

In contrast to the rest of his body - strong, defined, muscled - his cheeks were soft, yielding. It was nice to know that he was, indeed, human, and had some part of him that wasn't entirely perfect. Perfection never quite suited him.

He finished admiring his buttocks after what seemed like slightly too long, and placed his right hand flat over one side of it. His skin was smooth, the flesh elastic, to the point where William couldn't help but squeeze him with as much subtlety as he could muster. He heard no complaints from the man over his knees, and therefore deemed it appropriate for that time.

"Dean, are we ready?"

Dean's thick fingers took hold of the soft comforter so that both hands clutched a width of the fabric. They hadn't yet even begun, but his breath came out short and quick with anticipation.

"Ready, Sir."

The sharp noise echoed throughout the room, punctuated by a loud gasp and a breathy moan.

Regal gave him a few moments' recovery, appreciating the pink handprint that was becoming clear on his pale skin. Not quite enough, it seemed. Red suited him much better.

He struck again, in the same spot, drawing a grunt and a whimper from his charge. The welt grew darker, began to rise slightly. He could tell just how much it stung from the muscles that tensed in Dean's thighs.

"How does it feel?" William asked. It seemed only polite to make sure he was using the correct amount of force.

"Hurts," Dean exhaled. "Sir… more. Please."

"Good manners, Dean," he praised, laying his hand against the other cheek in response. His arm lifted higher than the last time, and struck down with more speed. With the way his own hand burned, he could easily measure just how much more it pained Dean.

Notwithstanding that he was squirming in his lap, hissing out a gasp, squeezing his hands around the blankets. Seconds later, his fidgeting slowed, as did his breathing. And he gave a long sigh of… relief?

No. The opposite.

Dean slammed his palm into the mattress.

"God…" he growled, frustration dripping from his voice. "Please. More. Harder."

William obliged, even though he failed to address him properly. It wasn't about him that night after all, though he was enjoying himself quite a bit. But with every blow, which he increased in strength every time, Dean only seemed to be winding up further. His muscles were tight, his fingers raking against the blankets, his grunts becoming more desperate.

His own hand was beginning to ache terribly by the time he gave it a rest. Dean's backside was more red than its normal color, absolutely covered in raised welts, and he could almost feel the heat radiating from Dean's skin.

William had feared this. It was risky to go any further, to touch any other part of his body that way. But he knew, he could tell in Dean's body language.

"It isn't enough, is it?"

Dean let out a snarl, trying to express his frustration but coming out sounding more like he was close to tears.

"It's all right, Dean," Regal whispered. "We can… try something else, if you need it."

"Please, yes, I need it, god… damn." He trailed off.

William tapped him on the thigh. "You may get up. I'll get… something else."

Dean slid off of William's knees, ending up sitting hunched over on the bed, in a position not unlike a scolded dog. Though he was calmer than before, his eyes were still no less blurred by his own anxiety. The spanking took the edge off, but he would need something with a larger surface area, more sensation with less wear on the both of them.

He had just the thing.

The older man glided away from the bed and to the elegant mahogany chest in the corner of his bedroom. The lid creaked open, revealing a trove of interesting devices in leather, stainless steel, silicone, sturdy glass. All of these were designed for the sole purpose of the strange pleasure-and-pain interactions he was engaged in at the moment, but he had something particular in mind.

Moments later, after carefully picking through his collection, he found it. The leather handle grasped between his fingers, he shut the chest and turned back to Dean, who was observing from afar.

He approached with the tool gently held in both hands. It seemed sort of small for its purposes - just under thirty inches from end to end, but William was fully aware of its effects. It consisted of a handle and nine swinging ropes, all of it composed of braided black and burgundy leather. Each of its tails ended in a knot with a bit of fringe, looking somewhat medieval in nature.

William held it out for Dean, giving him a nod when his hand reached out to feel it.

"This is a cat-o-nine tails," he explained as Dean ran his fingertips along each part of it. "A type of flogger. I think this will make it easier on the both of us, and… I think it can give you what you need."

"Can I try it first… Sir?" Dean hazarded, admiring the device with interest.

"Please."

He took the handle, measuring its weight in his hand. Gently, methodically, he ran the ends of the tails along his opposite arm. And then, with little fanfare, whipped it against the inside of his forearm, leaving the faintest pink marks.

Dean's eyes widened with understanding. William noted some of the fog clearing from behind them already.

"Yeah…" Dean mumbled, to himself rather than anyone else. He then turned his gaze to William's. "Please. I… need this, Sir." He offered it back with both hands, his head lowered in respect.

"Are you sure?" William asked gently, leaving the metaphorical door cracked for him. If he wanted something different, something less… overt, now would be the time, now was the chance. He rubbed his thumb back and forth against the handle, woven straps in a diamond pattern, textured just right to make sure his grip was firm and unyielding.

"Yes Sir." To be honest, Dean wasn't quite sure at all. This was new for him, for _them_, and what little embarrassment still flushed his system when he'd inevitably find himself on his knees, begging to be punished, flourished with the sting of the braids against his skin.

But the stinging felt nice. It made his mind clear and controlled for just a brief, shining moment. And this would cause significantly less harm than the matches he had done in CZW, a time where he found truly the power of pain and what it could do for his mind. He looked back at his arm, where the pink marks stood, from what he himself had done with it. He could only imagine how much worse for wear he'd be after William had his way with it.

William nodded, gripping tightly to the handle, before speaking up. "Well then. Kneel at the headboard, hold onto it with your hands. We'll start lightly, and progress from there. When it becomes too much, do not hesitate in the slightest in using your safety, do you understand me?"

"Yes, Sir." It was too natural for Dean to fall back into this, he even made sure to emphasize William's title when talking about him to others outside of the business, and something in him gloated at this knowledge. That while he could never truly claim any semblance of possession over Dean, his presence was still there, and that was enough.

Dean got up slowly, wincing for a brief moment at the soreness in his ass, before crawling towards the headboard, pulling himself up to grip at the top, stretching out his back, leaving both it and his thighs open for the lashes.

Regal noted to himself to avoid Dean's ass at all costs.

"Are you ready?"

Dean sighed out in the affirmative, hoping that this would put him back correctly in his body, feeling as if something in him was pouring over, that something in him didn't have enough, like he wasn't aligned properly. Everything felt off. He prayed, he guessed, that this would work.

The sudden snap of the braids at his back seemed to give him an answer. The first stroke of it against his skin had little force to it, this being a slow progression for him, but it still made something in his brain, his stomach, his loins stir. He wondered how it would feel if it was harder against his skin. Would that stinging burn be more potent, would it be enough?

Only one way to find out, he figured.

"Harder, Sir."

The second snap was harsher. And then the third. As they littered his back and the backs of his thighs, the movements becoming quicker and more forceful, Dean found himself biting gently against his forearm, gasping out a whine or a moan at a certain rough bite of the leather against his skin, his brain feeling like the static was being wiped away. He felt like he was floating. He felt fucking light and ecstatic and free. Like nothing in the world could touch him or hurt him.

Dean's back and thighs were becoming a lattice of thin, pink lines, nothing more than surface injuries, but all the same very clear. William paused to admire his work. He had concentrated his efforts on just the areas that wouldn't show as long as he wore a tank top and jeans. His shoulders were pale and free of any evidence, even though the rest of his back was burning with beautiful welts. His aim was impeccable, truly.

Aside from the marks, Dean's muscles had finally loosened. In spite of his grip on the headboard, his arms were relaxed, as were his back and shoulders. His head was limp against his own arm.

"Dean," William checked. "How is it? How do you feel?"

Dean sighed. There it was - relief. Finally.

"Goddamn," he moaned into his arm. "Better, Sir. So much better. Just a few more, please… just a few more. Harder."

Harder.

Regal found himself chewing a fingernail. Nasty habit, that. It couldn't hurt just for the few moments it took to think it through. He'd seen the matches Dean had been through, the kind of punishment he took from barbed wire, from safety glass, chairs, tables, various cooking implements. The safety hadn't been used yet that night, and therefore he worried he would do more damage than was absolutely necessary.

"This is how it's going to work, Dean," he explained, fumbling with the tails of his flogger. "I'm going to give you three more, alright? Just three. These three will be harder than before, and I will increase the force with each one. And you're going to use the safety. You'll use it as soon as I've used as much power as you can take. Not after, as soon as. Do you understand me?"

"Hahhh… nngh," Dean gasped. William could practically hear his tongue sliding out between his teeth. "I understand, Sir."

He took a deep breath, himself, steeling his nerves and raising the flogger to his shoulder level.

"Here we go, then. One."

The first of the last strikes landed on his lower back, across his spine. Dean's back arched, he let out a gasp that melted into a pleased chuckle. It rang out and echoed against William's ears as he waited for him to call out their code word.

Nothing. Some heavy breaths, a quiet moan. No words.

"Two."

It cracked against his thighs, causing him to jump in his place, crying out into the night. This, too, mutated into an uncontrollable laugh. The welts stung red on his skin as he repositioned himself, braced his arms on the headboard.

"Well alright, then. You've asked for it. Three."

He readied the flogger, resting it just behind his shoulder. A moment passed wherein he watched Dean's muscles tighten in preparation. And when the blow didn't arrive soon enough, he looked back over his shoulder.

His eyes were wide open, sparkling with revelation.

Smiling.

William swung the flogger downward, following Dean's spine, and whipped it back at the very moment of impact. The lashes bit into him, and Dean shouted, thrusting his hips forward, his back turning concave. His fingers clawed at the headboard, his toes curled. He let out two more cries, which became quieter each time, more calm.

"Mmmgh… t-tag…"

Dean collapsed onto the bed, hugging his knees, his back rising and falling with each breath that tugged itself from his lungs.

The sound of the flogger dropping to the ground was what Dean heard first, before feeling a hand on his head, stroking lightly at his hair.

"Are you alright? You did so well, you always do, you always take this so well…" William looked down at Dean's body, taking in the gradation of color in his skin, from pink to nearly red, and he knew that if he dared to ghost a hand above the welts, the heat from them would be remarkable. Perfect lashes against imperfect skin.

He couldn't help but palm at himself again, having managed to withhold the urge for as long as it took to give Dean the corrective discipline needed to put him back in the right state. Now, however… now he was so hard he was throbbing uncomfortably, and Dean's back was worse for wear. All due to his care.

He let out a harsh breath at that thought.

"Holy fuck," Dean murmured, rolling over onto his side. He hugged his arms around himself, smiling serenely, his knees bent against his stomach. He was whole again, each of his parts in the right place, warmth surging through his limbs. "Ohhh, that's so much better… Oh god damn."

Dean's expressions of relief certainly weren't helping William's problem. Especially now that he could see that smile, that smirk, the dimple in his cheek. And it was only compounded further when the younger man flopped over onto his back, wincing at the contact, and his arousal was strongly visible between his legs.

Sir William Regal's breath stopped dead in his throat. One shivering hand came up to cover his mouth. The other… Before he could stop himself, he was squeezing at his own crotch, letting out his own sigh of relief as the tension cleared for just that second.

But Dean opened his eyes and raised his head, and Regal whirled himself around in turn. Had he seen? This wasn't anything new for either of them, but somehow he felt ashamed at his lack of control. He looked down at himself, buttons loosened on his shirt, his suit pants bulging obviously.

Dean shouldn't know about this.

This was a side effect, not a goal. And he was right again, so the night should have been over.

"Hey."

He was startled to hear it. It sounded like an invitation, expectant, friendly. William turned his head just so, enough to see Dean sitting up against the headboard and grinning.

"What're you doin' over there? Come on." Dean patted the space next to him on the bed.

William let out a startled breath. Well, he couldn't turn it down. He asked. He wanted…

With a sigh, Regal turned around once more and strode determined to the side of the bed. Slowly and carefully he sat down next to Dean, unsure of where to put his hands. It was odd, at this age, feeling like a teenager without the experience necessary to pleasure someone. Especially considering how well he'd done on Dean's back…

He didn't have much time to consider, for Dean had already gone to work undoing his belt.

William was more surprised than he really should have been with how nimble Dean's hands were, taking no time whatsoever in not only undoing his pants, but managing to take the boxers along with them when he pulled them off of his legs, tossing them somewhere behind him.

Dean positioned himself between William's legs, shuffling slightly to get comfortable, before taking him in his mouth unceremoniously. That was the one thing about Dean that Regal had to admit was rather troubling - his sense of foreplay was nearly nonexistent. Not that he was arguing with the enthusiasm with which Dean's tongue was working, swirling around the head, pressing firmly at the underside of it, even just licking broadly at it when he'd break his mouth away for air.

What a wicked mouth indeed.

He was conflicted, however, when he threaded a hand through those haphazard curls in front of him. Part of him wanted to lock tightly into them, to keep him in this subservient position longer, to let his release be his reward. However, another part of him wanted to see how he'd react to the slapping of skin against that raw, roughened skin.

He tugged at Dean's hair, a muffled grumble echoing around his length before Dean lifted up.

"What… not good enough?"

He had to chuckle at that, because it was rather quite the opposite. Dean's mouth was a source of talent for him, and the innuendo of that statement has never been lost on him. They had only gotten this far a handful of times, but each time was branded, almost lovingly, in his memory.

"I want to make it clear to you that this was not an intention of mine, to make you do this. Tonight was about you, and what _you_ needed. Do not feel obligated whatsoever to do this."

Dean rolled his eyes, and focused instead on undoing the few remaining fastened buttons on William's shirt.

"I don't feel _obligated_ to do shit. I'm thanking you. Unless you'd rather me leave you all hard and irritable. Which I can totally do, you know. I was just always taught to respect my elders-" Dean paused, forced into a shuddering silence as William wrapped a hand around Dean's length. Not stroking, not even a firm grasp, just loose enough to gain his attention.

"Oh, what was that, Dean? I, for a moment, thought you were talking back to me. Surely, I'm mistaken, yes?" His hold drew tighter, a breathy whine falling from Dean's lips.

"Y-yes, Sir…"

"Good. We all make mistakes, don't we?" He reached to his left side, into the side-table drawer, his other hand still holding Dean. From the drawer he pulled a single packaged condom and a clear container of lubricant, and held it out for his charge to take.

Dean accepted it with two open hands, biting his lip. "Yes, Sir. Me, especially."

As the younger man went to work, opening the condom and applying it carefully to his partner, William chuckled and sighed, once more gently patting his ginger curls.

"No, Dean. I assure you, no more than anyone else. You're a remarkable human being, but… you are just that. Human. Like the rest of us."

They shared a moment, staring into each other's eyes, William looking kindly down at Dean, and Dean's gaze warming in return.

Dean enthusiastically went back to his task, applying the lubricant where needed, and giving William an extra squeeze. A happy breath huffed out from his lungs as Dean threw one leg over to the other side of his waist and reached back to hold William's pulsing member steady.

Dean Ambrose was usually quick, rash, even heedless, in all things. But at this effort in particular, he was taking all the time necessary. He positioned William's head against himself, getting used to the feeling on his tight hole, slowly working it into himself with careful swivels of his hips.

Once the head was through, he paused and closed his eyes, giving Regal time to do a bit of the same. Gradually, Dean lowered himself, taking in the length and girth with care, his tongue resting between his teeth in concentration. As Dean's muscles contracted around him, William found his eyes fluttering towards the ceiling, vision beginning to mist over with heat.

Finally, after what seemed like minutes spent in lovely apprehension, Dean was sitting on William's lap, the head of his manhood pressing insistently at his sweet spot. Dean's face and chest were blushing almost as red as his back as he placed his hands down on his own thighs.

"I'll be honest, here," he breathed into the night. "I fuckin' missed this."

William smiled, reached up to brush a single errant curl away from Dean's eyes. "As did I, dear boy."

Dean nudged the hand away with his head, choosing instead to rock his hips slightly, the awkward sentimentality of the moment getting to him. His skin wasn't burning anymore, but a low ache, and even the slightest friction against it sent static along his nerves, sparking at whatever hints of uneasiness that still rested in his body.

It had been a while since he had been like this, full and aching. This wouldn't last long, especially after the beating he had taken. Instead of being gentle, in any futile attempt to drag out the pleasure, he decided rather to let it hit him harshly, in keeping with the theme of the evening. He rocked desperately, the rise and fall of his hips lacking any sense of coordinated rhythm, instead choosing to focus his attentions on working himself closer to the edge, taking a hand and wrapping it around his cock tightly, just as desperate in his strokes.

William had chosen to rest his hands on Dean's hips, a hand sliding with the harsh movements of Dean's body, allowing him the chance to drag nails down Dean's thigh, the sharp hiss of pain that always morphed into that low, devious chuckle spurring him onward. He was going to let Dean do the work, but seeing how desperate he seemed for it, William chose instead to chase his release right along with him. For every time Dean would slam his hips downward, he'd meet him in counterpoint, pushing up roughly into him, fingers gripping so tightly into his skin he'd fear for leaving bruises, if he hadn't covered almost his entire back with lashes and welts.

Finally, enough was becoming enough, and he quickly reached up to grab Dean by the hair, pulling him closer, allowing him to growl into his ear. "Come on, Dean. Be good for me, like you have been, and come for me. Be a good boy."

As much as Dean was so firmly and comfortably in control of his pleasure for most of the time William had been inside him, he felt it slipping through his fingers at the dulcet sound of voice. At the next thrust, he suddenly found himself unwinding entirely, William having hit his most sensitive spot as the last word left his lips.

Dean's orgasm struck through him, his spine arched backward and his hands fell forward, bracing him against the pillows and forcing his head to land between William's neck and shoulder. His entire body shook and spasmed, and for a moment he felt once more outside of himself. Not necessarily in the same way, but it was jarring all the same. And the noises flying out of his mouth seemed to make it obvious - the whimpering, the whining that was uncharacteristic of his normal demeanor.

William took notice.

"Dean, Dean, stay with me," he whispered into his ear, his own pleasure ramping up as he spoke. "Anchor yourself, boy, like I know you can."

With a growl that sounded far more like himself, Dean sunk his teeth into William's shoulder, hard. He held the flesh between his teeth, grunting as his orgasm shot through and out of him, landing hot onto the waiting stomach and chest below.

The pain of Dean's slightly snaggled teeth digging into his skin was… delicious.

"Ah," William thought as his own cock twitched inside Dean's tightened hole. "I can definitely see what he gets out of that." On any normal night, receiving pain was more of an annoyance rather than a plus. But it was different, here. Dean holding desperately onto himself, onto William, and his own hands holding him together at the hips.

As Dean came down from on high, his teeth releasing him, William couldn't help but gently scrape a hand down Dean's back, the muffled "_fuck_" against his neck being the final push for him towards his release, a quick gasp before a low groan as he held Dean in place, firmly against him. He was more for inflicting pain, a sadist; he was, after all, a born villain, it was only in his nature.

Dean was still laying there, trying desperately to catch his breath, and Regal couldn't help but stroke lightly at his hair again, before gently pressing his lips against the top of his head. Dean lazily raised an arm to swat at him, once again trying to avoid any of the awkward unresolved emotions between them. That time had been long past, and Dean was not one to look in the past for any reason. Except for when it was necessary, like tonight had been.

"Come on, sunshine, let's get you all cleaned up and back to your car and back to the wonderful world of superstardom."

"Shut up."

"Now now, you've been good this entire night, and _now_ is when you're going to backtalk?"

"'M tired, cut me some slack."

"Fine, fine, you do deserve your rest, I was rather rough on you."

"Sleepin' here."

"Like hell you are."

"Yup."

William rolled his eyes, pushing at Dean's body. Dean pulled himself off, sighing as he collapsed back onto the bed, tongue between his teeth, eyes full of mischief. Ah yes, _there_ it was. That was the Dean he knew.

"Oh, bloody hell, fine, take a shower at least, or a bath. You are _disgusting_."

"And you're a dirty old man, so…"

He threw his hands up at that, walking towards the bathroom, Dean's laughter resounding before he shut the door behind him.


End file.
